Page 125 of The Collector
“You’re the expert. You tell me.”
The learned art historian considered his answer at length. Finally, he indicated the canvas on the left.
“Are you sure?” asked Gabriel.
“Positive,” replied the director. “The one on the right is an obvious copy.”
Gabriel turned over the version on the left, revealing a pristine canvas and modern stretcher. “Don’t worry, it will be our little secret.”
The director placed the real Van Gogh in a purpose-built carrying case. “The press will want to know who handled the restoration. How shall I respond?”
“Tell them it wasthatGabriel Allon.”
“I was hoping that would be your answer.” The director closed and locked the carrying case. “See you in London for the unveiling?”
Gabriel smiled. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
62
Harry’s Bar
General Ferrari accompanied the Van Gogh on its brief journey across thelagunato Marco Polo Airport. Once it was safely airborne and bound for London, he rang Gabriel and suggested they meet at Harry’s Bar for a drink. Gabriel, who was sorely in need of a Bellini, agreed.
“Is there a more perfect beverage?” asked the general as the waiter delivered the first round to their corner table.
“No,” said Gabriel. “Nor is there a more perfect place to consume the perfect beverage.” He glanced around the deserted bar. “Especially in winter when we Venetians have the city largely to ourselves.”
Ferrari raised his glass in salutation. “The director of the Courtauld tells me that you had a little fun at his expense.”
“The director of the Courtauld needs new eyeglasses.”
“How many books on Van Gogh has he written? Is it three or only two?”
Gabriel smiled but said nothing.
“Perhaps I should take possession of the copy,” said the general. “Just so there are no misunderstandings.”
“I’ll add a signature to avoid any possible confusion.”
“Not Vincent’s, I hope.”
“Oh, no,” said Gabriel. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
The general laughed quietly. “I only wish you could sign your name to that business in Russia. The rest of the world needs to know that you were the one who saved us from a nuclear apocalypse.”
“Actually, you’re the one who deserves all the credit.”
“Me? What did I do?”
“You dragged me down to Amalfi to authenticate the Van Gogh.”
“A pretext on my part.”
“And a rather obvious one at that.”
“I have to admit, your theory of the case turned out to be more accurate than mine.” General Ferrari drew a surveillance photograph from his attaché case and laid it on the table. It depicted a man of perhaps forty-five lunching in Amalfi’s Piazza Duomo. He was accompanied by a fair-haired woman whose face was obscured by large sunglasses. “Recognize him?”
It was Grigori Toporov, the SVR assassin Gabriel had killed in Kandestederne.
